When Music Fades:Addiction in the Industry I Love
- Mickey Miller
- Aug 3, 2025
- 5 min read
The music industry has given me some of the best memories of my life. It’s filled my world with power chords, deep lyrics, pounding drums, and raw, emotional connection. But behind the music—just under the surface—there’s another side I’ve seen far too often. A darker side. One that doesn’t care if you’re talented, famous, or loved.
Addiction.
I’ve seen it firsthand, more times than I can count. I’ve watched it slowly take hold of people I cared about—friends, musicians, even someone I once loved.
I lost my good friend Trevor to heroin. That man was more than a friend—he was a protector. He always had my back, no matter what. He showed up, stood up for me, and made sure I knew I mattered. He had a heart so big, and a loyalty that ran deep. Trevor would’ve done anything to keep the people he loved safe. But in the end, he couldn’t save himself. And when the drugs took him, the world lost a soul it couldn’t afford to lose.
An ex of mine battled pain pill addiction. I gave everything trying to save him. I fought for three years, hoping love would be enough. Hoping I could be more important than that fix. But the truth is, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves. One day, I walked away. And to this day, I don’t know if he ever made it through—or if he’s even still alive. That kind of uncertainty never really leaves you.
I’ve also had to sit beside my kids as they sobbed over the deaths of their own friends—young people full of fire and promise, people I watched grow up. Kids I believed would change the world. Instead, they became headlines. Obituaries. Ghosts. There’s nothing more devastating than watching your children learn about addiction not through a lecture, but through loss.
And I’m not just someone on the outside looking in. I know this demon all too well because for a few years, I was an alcoholic. I drank to numb, to forget, to function. I thought I was coping, but I was slowly disappearing. Addiction knew my name. It tried to convince me I needed it. But I got out—and now, that same demon knows this: I will do anything to destroy it. I’ve stared it down in others and in myself, and I won’t stop fighting.
In the music world, addiction is everywhere. Alcohol. Pills. Meth. Heroin. I’ve watched bands tear themselves apart from the inside out. I’ve seen tours collapse, friendships fracture, creativity wither, and careers vanish—not because the talent wasn’t there, but because addiction doesn’t care how gifted you are. It only cares about feeding itself.
And look at how many we’ve lost. The list of names is heartbreakingly long—icons, legends, rising stars. Look at the statistics. Look at how they got their fix. It wasn’t always behind closed doors or shady back alleys. Sometimes, it was handed to them by fans who thought they were showing love. Sometimes it came from managers who needed them to keep performing, keep producing, keep making money. So they kept them fed—fed the habit just enough to keep the machine going. And all the while, the artist—the human being—was breaking.
Then there are the enablers—those who want to be close to the fire, to bask in the glow of someone else’s fame. They hand over the bottle, the baggie, the pills—pretending it’s friendship. Pretending it’s love. But it’s not. It’s manipulation dressed up as loyalty. They’re not helping. They’re helping kill someone slowly.
To those that enable: they don’t love you, and they won’t ever. They love the fix. So please—stop enabling.
And those of us who truly care? We’re left watching people we love slowly die. You see the light dim in their eyes. The music grows hollow. The passion, once electric, becomes buried beneath exhaustion and pain. You want to reach them, but the demon always feels one step ahead.
Right now, I’m watching it happen again—to someone dear to my heart. Someone whose writing speaks deeply. Someone gifted and broken and trying to hold on. I see the pain in their eyes—the weight of grief, the burden of love, the exhaustion of pretending they’re okay. And I see the demon too, tightening its grip, choking out their soul.
So what do I do? Do I speak up and say, “You need help”? Or do I stay silent and let the demon win?
It’s the hardest question. Because I’ve lived both sides—I’ve tried to save others, and I’ve had to save myself. I’ve learned this truth: you can’t rescue someone who isn’t ready. But I’ve also learned this: silence never helped anyone heal. And I refuse to sit back and do nothing. Not again.
This isn’t just a problem for a few “troubled artists.” It’s a cancer in the music industry. It lurks behind the lights, feeds off fame, and kills quietly in bathrooms and backrooms. We glorify the tortured artist but mourn them too late.
I love music with everything I have—but I hate what addiction does to the people who create it.
If you’re close to someone in this world—a musician, a roadie, a tech, even a fan—be the one who doesn’t pass the bottle. Be the one who speaks truth, not silence. Because no song, no tour, no party is worth a life.
And if you’re struggling—please, hear me. You are not alone. You are not broken beyond repair. The music doesn’t have to fade. You still have a voice. And there are people—like me—who will fight beside you.
Because some of us? We’ve danced with that demon.
And we survived.
We’re still here.
Still fighting.
Still hoping you’ll stay.
Peace, Love and Loud Music,
Mickey
🎵 Resources for Musicians Facing Addiction or Mental Health Struggles
If you or someone you love is struggling with addiction, please don’t wait. Speak up. Reach out. Get help. You are not alone—and there is a way back.
🎧 MusiCares (by the Recording Academy)
Confidential support for musicians, crew, and music professionals dealing with addiction, mental health, and financial hardship.
📞 Call: 1-800-687-4227
🎤 Backline – Mental Health & Wellness for the Music Industry
Connects musicians, their families, and crews with mental health professionals and addiction resources.
🧠 SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration)
National helpline for anyone in the U.S. dealing with substance use or mental health crises.
📞 Call or Text 24/7: 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
For Trevor. For every friend lost. For the ones who are still here. And the ones we’re not giving up on.
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